


Paintings of the Past

by towan_white



Category: IAMX, Noel Fielding - Fandom, Robots In Disguise (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 18:17:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12393519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towan_white/pseuds/towan_white
Summary: Short sadfic involving Noel reflecting on fond past memories of people he no longer even hears from.





	Paintings of the Past

Noel sat in his studio, gently running his paintbrush back and forth over the large, A2 canvas he was working on. He sat back to examine at his work so far, flinching a little as his spine readjusted to an upright position after around 40 minutes of stooping over. The painting was a close-up of a man’s face and, as was to be expected, was presented in his usual abstract style: absolutely brimming with the brightest colours imaginable, and with bizarre-looking, asymmetrical facial features. The colours, however, were mostly confined to unorganised streaks on top of a black background, giving the appearance of multi-coloured spotlights. The man in the foreground was sheet-white of complexion, and was wearing black eyeliner and lipstick. His hair was also jet black, swooping across his forehead and cutting off just above his thin shoulders. Atop his head sat a black top hat with black and white stripes across the band. The only colour present on his face was the deep umber used for his eyes, turning them into deep brown voids that Noel frequently lost himself in as he worked on the piece.

He brushed a few stray, raven hairs out of his eyes as he squinted at the canvas in front of him. Something just wasn’t quite right, but he just couldn’t for the life of him figure out _what_. Sitting back even further, he cast his eyes down to the floor to his right. Resting there against a large wooden table was a shorter, wider canvas that he had been working on a few days prior. The image was of two women with short, bobbed hair: one blonde, the other dark brown with a red streak at the front. He stared at the painting, his face screwing up in intense concentration as he pondered. He had had the same problem with that painting, and hoped that leaving it for a few days to work on something else would help him find what he was looking for. Three days had gone by and he still hadn't figured out precisely what was missing.

He faced the canvas in front of him once again and sighed deeply before placing his head in his hands. The three of them had been on his mind for weeks. He didn’t know what exactly had evoked the memory of them, but decided that it wouldn’t have mattered even if he did; it wouldn’t have made it any easier to stop thinking about them. He could understand why he so often missed Julian – they were long-term comedy partners, after all – but he found it so strange to feel that way about people from such a small part of his life.

Cradling his head, he cast his mind back to all of the gigs he and Julian played alongside some of their best friends, the music videos he had participated in with them, the cameo roles he had given them all in The Mighty Boosh, the parties he attended with his girlfriend at the time, and her best friend, and her boyfriend. He hunched over more as he softly began to sob, unable to stop the bittersweet tears leaking from his eyes. He missed Chris. He missed Sue. He missed Dee.

It was at that moment that he realised what was missing from his paintings. No matter how hard he tried to replicate their likenesses or recreate the fond memories he’d had with them, none of that would bring them back into his life, and neither would sitting in silence and waiting for them to make the first move. Drying his eyes and collecting himself, he reached out for his phone on the small table next to him and opened his contacts list. He scrolled down to C and eventually found Chris’s number, his thumb hovering over the “Call” button. Steeling himself, he closed his eyes and pressed his thumb to the button, lifting the phone to his ear as the ringer sounded. In that moment, all he could do was wait and hope that he hadn’t changed his number.


End file.
